Terminus
Psychic TV Lyrics

Quiet and hooded, his eyes stared out, small hands make patterns on the window.
The boy is alone, looking out the window and playing with his hands.

Body shifting on wood, dog outside the door, flickering memories as trains maneuver in the old men's eyes.
The boy is restless as memories of trains and a dog outside the door flicker in an old man's eyes.

Forever part of a sleep- ing world, waiting for him to come. Lost dreams of childhood forgotten like hope.
The boy feels trapped in a sleeping world, waiting for something or someone that will never come. His dreams of childhood are lost, along with any hope.

These lives are grey stones made for cemeteries, this time the victim is desired, like misery.
Life is gray and dull, and the only desire is for misery or to be a victim.

He stepped down from the train, dust on road and clothes, across the way a boy was grinning, hard-on obvious in torn grey trousers inherited from an earlier victim of the white horse.
A man steps off a train with dirt on his clothes and sees a boy grinning with a noticeable erection in torn gray trousers, which he inherited from a previous victim of abuse.

Filing past the flowers and signs full of dreams, light of night filtering where woof tiles slipped, into that darkness.
A procession walks past flowers and signs full of dreams while the night's light filters through slipping tiles, leading them into the darkness.

Each ritual makes demand, a hope- less coil of expensive death affirming our exeistence.
Every ritual demands something from us, but it is ultimately a hopeless and expensive way of affirming our existence.

The direction never changes, never falters. Along those derelict lines lines to journey's end. Small hands smear juice on flesh squeezing tight crinkling of skin against worn eyes.
The direction and path to the end never change, even as the boy's small hands squeeze tight against wrinkled skin and make a mess on his face.

There is no need of light. Somewhere, in the secret cathedral, small movements, the whole area covered in sheets of snow, pitted by huts.
Light is not needed in this secret cathedral where only small movements can be seen and everything is covered in snow and huts.

He had no expectations, there was no reason, breathing short as the text on the wall. Whenever the dog moved, the night trembled, shimmering like water moved by leaves in a forest.
The man had no expectations and there was no reason for him being there, causing him to breathe rapidly. Whenever the dog moved, the night would tremble like leaves in a forest.

Marks of cold spray in the dust, as in the future faded by choice. Our appetite for miracles is not enough. Here, only animals remain, immaculate, seduced by pain.
Marks of cold spray are left in the dust, symbolizing a future that is fading because of choices made. Our desire for miracles is not enough to change things. Here, only animals remain, lured by pain and purity.

Ending fear into specters of welcome. Floor stained with patients. The moment of least action. He moved like a rat in rubble toward the sheets of snow, awake and empty, like an old house, the place where all dreams meet.
Fear is transformed into an eerie welcome for spirits. The floor is stained with the blood of patients. There is a sense of inaction in that moment. The man moved like a rat in ruins towards the sheets of snow, feeling awake yet empty, like an old house where all dreams come to meet.

"He was grinning before he jumped".
The boy had a grin on his face before he committed suicide by jumping.

Las night the boy came. Open arms. Black hair. Strong. Empty pale face. A volunteer. Unsure of why he came. Seduced by pain. A faded painting. Waiting for release, he blinked, looked up at the ceiling, let out a tiny gasp praying for oblivion.
The boy came last night with open arms, black hair, and a pale face. He was uncertain of why he came but was seduced by pain. He was waiting for release and finally let out a tiny gasp while praying for oblivion.

No engines anymoore. The machine engine's stopped. No ghosts of death playing in the grass. Just simple, as you would expect. No physical core. No smiles of love from pitted carriages. Just an empty town. Derelict. No way to identify. Sound playing across skin like fingers. Just as ampty as flesh. What do you want? Nothing in particular. No reason at all. Just a noise of dreams at the door. Just as before. Did you see that?
There are no engines left and the machine has stopped. There are no ghosts playing in the grass. It is a simple and empty town, lacking love and identity. A sound plays across skin like fingers, feeling as empty as flesh. There is no particular desire or reason, just a noise of dreams at the door. It feels like it has all happened before, but did you see it?

This is the place where all roads meet, the place where all is the secret. The Place where time stands still in the comfort of night and love becomes will in the presence of light. I never want to leave. I never want to leave. I never want to leave.
This is the place where all roads meet, where everything is a secret. Time stands still in the comfort of night and love becomes will in the presence of light. The artist never wants to leave this magical place.